Sherrinford
by SilvertonguedClotpole
Summary: Based on a tumblr edit (though the poster has now made further edits). My own quick and random take of the short scene. Sherlock's latest case is rudely interrupted by his phone ringing, expecting to shout at John or Lestrade the voice on the other end is someone he least expected to hear. Almost a voice from the dead. (OC but also sort of not.)


**The original idea for this came from an edit of Colin Morgan's scenes from 'The Fall' and Sherlock scenes. Tumblr. 'mykingdomescome'_ post/104099432342/the-other-holmes-1_ **(I haven't mastered links)  
**I know Sherrinford is meant to be older but I cannot get the idea of Colin being the third brother out of my mind, I love it! Though the OP has made further edits since me writing this that don't correlate with this particular one shot they are brilliant and I can't wait to see where they take it. **  
**No beta so any mistakes my own and as I say it was a random thought popping into my head as I sat staring at the gifset for about the 100th time so it may not make too much sense. I don't plan on continuing this unless I get another wave of creativity, so sorry in advance for anyone wanting more chapters.**

* * *

He was on a stakeout, or whatever other ridiculous name John had given it, seemingly a normal customer of the local cafe- though not _his_ local cafe, that would be Speedy's. The window was slightly misted over, the cold atmosphere mixing with the sudden warm body heat of the dinner rush making the once cosy building now seem almost claustrophobic.

Sherlock knew exactly who he was looking for, he and Lestrade were so very close to ending this pathetic case he didn't even think he was needed on. But yes, he was not here looking for the criminal as such, but rather the actions they took; to find the stashed stolen goods. If he was honest, and let's face it he very rarely was if it made him look a little less astute, he could only narrow the location down to a few streets and not one particular house or building. This aggravated him more than it should.

One thing, though, that annoyed him more than anything was his phone suddenly coming to life when he was concentrating, in fairness he should have put it on silent but that caused complications he didn't need if Lestrade, John or (god forbid) Mycroft couldn't reach him- this was no exaggeration, after everything that had gone on with Moriarty and Mary there tended to be nation wide man hunts for him if he didn't answer after 5 calls. Ok, maybe a _slight_ exaggeration, more like London wide rather than Nation Wide. After 3 rings he sighed and answered, though still not taking his eyes off the window, he couldn't afford to miss anything now.

Not bothering to look at the number, he answered with an audible roll of the eyes, "Who wants me this time?"

There was a short pause, where he distinctly heard a faint and quick intake of breath, one showing a few signs of anxiety. He was about to shout at them or hang up when a deep, only just recognizable voice said, "Your brother."

Silence. Silence from both ends of the phone. Sherrinford! Slowly his eyes left the window, left the bustling freezing streets of London and lost all focus. His world went into slow motion and he was sure anyone looking his way would say the same, his movements changed to almost nothing, his neck seemed to stiffen as it supported his sudden heavy head. For once in a very long time his chest constricted, his stomach knotted itself and the hand on his glass of water ("No thank you I do not need a drink...oh fine, if I must, water then") began to shake the liquid within.

"Ryan?"

There was a little chuckle from the other end. "You remember then?"

"What, you mean the name my poor misnamed little brother prefers? How would I forget that? Or would you _rather_ I called you Sherrinford?" He gave out a dry deep chuckle. It was in their childhood they had settled on 'Ryan' going by the pure fact there was a similar sounding word halfway through his actual name. Sherrinford...Rin...Ryan!

"No, god, Ryan's better thanks Sherlock." His heart fluttered (_my god they actually do that?_) when he heard his long lost brother say his name.

"How long's it been?"

"Blimey, 12, 13 years?" Ryan answered.

"You were barely out of school." Sherlock was disgusted by the grief building up, not to mention the guilt settling in his gut. It had been him, his fault, all his fault, leading Ryan down the wrong paths. He had been so clever, the smartest of them all, beating both Sherlock and Mycroft in every test, averaging way above his age and Sherlock had fucked it all up for him. The younger Holmes had followed him, had wanted to get into detective work too, and of course, once he followed this path, the one full of drugs soon rolled by too. The only difference between them had been that Sherlock was stronger, able to resist them far easier than Ryan and soon the Holmes family lost their youngest, missing, presumed involved with some drug business and then later assumed dead, though Sherlock never thought that, never gave up hope he had driven his brother that far.

As if sensing his inner thoughts Ryan suddenly added, "It wasn't your fault y'know. I followed you by choice, you told me to back off and I didn't."  
He decided to ignore it, for now his mind jumped to how Ryan had got his number (_your website you idiot, who are you, Anderson!?_) and why he needed him. "What's wrong Ry?"

"It's not that I don't know the culprits, I do, it's just a bit complicated, might need the both of us. Gangs, killings...drug business."

Sherlock stood up, grabbing his coat and scarf, regardless of how cold it was outside he didn't bother putting them on. "Where are you?" The concern in his voice was exactly an older brother worrying over his sibling, usually the type produced by late night parties or the consequences of family argument walkouts. If Ryan was contacting him now, things were serious.

"Believe it or not...I don't need you. I _want_ you."

The thing to break his shock was the angry complaints of people trying to get past him in the doorway, for that was where he's stopped mid stride.

"Where are you?" He repeated.

"Birmingham, believe it or not. I thought the case I'm on was something of interest for you."

"What are we talking?" He was sure he could hear the smile on the other end of the phone.

"Peaky Blinders, 21st century edition?"

Sherlock chuckled, quickly followed by Sherrinford. "Text me everything, I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Sure. See you soon." The humour had gone, now there was just a hint of nerves and sentiment between the pair.

"Looking forward to it." He ended the call, quickly typing a second into the pad. The line rang 2 times before it was answered, "Lestrade, the large blue building, advertising itself as an antique book shop. Check any back rooms or basements, how cliche and...corny!"

_"You saw him?"_ Lestrade asked.

"Not quite, but to say they're 'antique' I can see far too many modern prints."

_"Maybe they're branching out."_

He rolled his eyes. "Just shut up, look into it. I have other business."

_"Yes boss."_ Came the sarcastic remark. _"What business?"_

Sherlock hung up. He had an old friend to see. Emotions were a chemical found in the losing side, and a defect of humanity, but right now, Sherlock Holmes didn't know if to laugh or cry.

Sherrinford 'Ryan' Holmes was alive.


End file.
